


perfect mornings

by novoaa1



Category: DCU
Genre: Domestic, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, F/F, Harleen Quinzel Backstory, POV Pamela Isley, Pamela Isley Loves Harleen Quinzel, Past Joker (DCU)/Harleen Quinzel, Sharing Clothes, Sharing a Bed, adorable harleen quinzel, domestic girlfriends, harley has abs, pamela isley being a useless lesbian, sleepy harleen quinzel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:08:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25227334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: Harley is sleepy, Ivy's in love, and the universe is testing her.
Relationships: Pamela Isley/Harleen Quinzel
Comments: 18
Kudos: 234





	perfect mornings

**Author's Note:**

> idk dude
> 
> lemme know if there are any crazy glaring errors? i suck at proofreading (and by that, i mean i didn't do it)

So, here’s the thing—Ivy’s always known that Harley was… fit (to say the very least). 

It was pretty damned hard to miss, actually, what with all the cartwheels and back handsprings and handstands she insisted on doing—especially in the midst of decidedly life-threatening situations. 9 times out of 10, she landed squarely on her feet. (Ivy didn’t much like thinking about the other 10%.)

There was also the matter of her being an accomplished, Olympic-bound gymnast in college (—something Harley always played surprisingly close to the vest for someone of her… _exceedingly talkative_ caliber). That kind of raw, meticulously-curated talent most certainly didn’t go away over night.

All that to say—Ivy _knows_ Harley’s athletic, and furthermore, that her ( _very_ trim) figure reflects that. 

It’s always been something she’s at least peripherally aware of—a simple facet of what makes Harley _Harley_. Something that just _is_ , like gravity or the moon overhead.

But now… Well. 

Now, it feels _different_ , somehow. 

Maybe it’s that Harley hasn’t been with the Joker for the better part of half a year (five months and twenty-four days—not that Ivy’s counting, or anything), and has spent that time living with Ivy on the outskirts of Gotham—movie nights, two-woman heists, sharing the same bed.

Maybe it’s that where before, taking notice of Harley’s… ahem, _well-toned_ build felt shameful, forbidden—like she was encroaching upon something (or some _one_ , rather) that wasn’t hers. Territory that belonged to the Joker, as it were. 

(Though she’s loathe to put it in such crude, almost _caveman-esque_ terms, because Harley is a woman all her own before she is anyone else’s; she is a woman, period, and as such she can not physically _belong_ to another. Truly, it would be an insult to think any different.)

Before, there was an all-too-prominent deterrent which kept her from so much as looking at Harley a second too long; now… now, not so much (or at all, really). 

Now, she’s rather hard-pressed to find a single good reason (besides all the usual ones) not to gawk and stare and _admire_ whenever the opportunity arises (and it all too often does), because Harley is a million things—loud and impulsive and silly—but above all else, _beautiful_. (Inside and out.)

She’s enchanting in a way that’s messy and tumultuous and the farthest thing from conventional—and it’s not _in spite of_ but rather _because of that_ that Ivy finds herself so inexplicably spellbound at every turn… a sensation that’s only heightened profoundly over time. 

Take this morning, for example (which is routine until it isn’t): 

Waking up in a California king-sized bed that they’ve been sharing more than long enough for it to feel like _theirs_ (rather than just Ivy’s); slipping out of bed and knowing Harley won’t wake because it’s something like 7:00am and Harley rarely rises before 10; going downstairs to brew some coffee for herself before coming back to bed with her laptop tucked beneath her arm and a steaming mug in hand, only to catch sight of Harley tangled in a mess of sheets—

And feel her heart stop in her chest at the sight of her, because this… this is _not_ routine. (Not that Ivy’s complaining. At all.)

Harley’s dressed in one of Ivy’s T-shirts—a pale green cotton top emblazoned with the phrase 'SAVE THE EARTH.’ stamped across the chest in bold white font—and a slightly too-small pair of black boxer briefs decorated with the Batman symbol in bright dandelion-yellow all over. 

The shirt—Ivy’s shirt—had likely ridden up over the course of the night, as the crinkled hem now rests just below the pert swells of either breast (which is probably good, for the sake of Ivy’s already compromised focus). The Batman boxer briefs sit low on her slender hips, the tangled sheets cover her legs only as far as the knees (Harley grew something of an allergy to blankets every night around 3:00am like clockwork), and her stomach…. 

Before Harley, Ivy had never before met a woman with abs—and by that, she doesn’t mean like the gentle (but defined) line that splits the tight musculature of Selina’s abdomen in two (earned from years of training her body to contort obscenely in order to benefit her predilection for five-finger-discounts). 

She means the kind she’s seeing now—an honest-to-goodness six-pack over a defined V-shaped musculature that starts at either hipbone and disappears beneath the grey waistband of her boxers; all gentle dips and firm edges, hard-earned muscles contracting hypnotically beneath smooth ghost-pale skin as Ivy gapes.

Honestly, she’s not sure how long she stands there just _staring_ (though she’s sure it’s something ridiculous); all she knows is that by the time she’s managed to tear herself away and trek back downstairs (for the sake of this morning’s productivity, if nothing else), it’s just past 7:30am and she’s well on her way to dampening the crotch of her panties with her own arousal if she doesn’t get a grip of herself, _now_. 

_Dammit, Harley_.

— — 

She gets exactly an hour of alone time downstairs—scrolling through the day's headlines, calculating the projected lifespan on a new hybridized breed of flora she’s been growing in the greenhouse, texting Selina back-and-forth about her… _Harley_ situation. 

_One hour_ of alone time before the universe (apparently) decides it hasn’t been testing her already rather limited patience quite enough for today, because 8:34 finds a groggy and _adorably_ disheveled Harley stumbling into the living room where Ivy sits cross-legged upon the couch amassing a comprehensive spreadsheet of plant-life expectancy estimates in Excel. 

She looks up from the screen as Harley trudges through the archway—half-asleep and hiking up the hem of her (read: Ivy’s) T-shirt to scratch at her _unreasonably_ toned stomach with a quiet yawn.

“W-Well good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” Ivy quips, smirking as Harley lets out a dramatic groan and ambles closer. 

“Why ya weren’t upstairs?” Harley grumbles, then wordlessly removes Ivy’s computer from her lap and transfers it to the nearest flat surface (which just so happens to be a short table nearby) just within arm’s length. “Ya always do yer mornin’ work upstairs.” With that, she collapses belly-first atop the couch cushions—cheek squished against Ivy’s upper thigh, bare feet dangling over the sofa arm on the opposite end. “G’night, Red."

Ivy chuckles quietly at that, reaching over to shut her laptop with one hand even as her other begins to card gentle fingers through Harley’s white-bleached-blonde hair—tangled dip-dyed locks sprawled every which way across her lap, warm puffs of air ghosting across her bare calves on every languorous exhale, quiet contented hums escaping full parted red lips every time Ivy’s well-manicured nails graze _just right_ along her scalp. 

It’s perfect, in short— _she_ is perfect, and Ivy has never been so in love. 

( _Dammit, Harley_.)

— —

**Author's Note:**

> thoughts?
> 
> (my [tumblr](https://psyches.co.vu/))


End file.
